


All The Words I Cannot Sing

by Phantomholdsmyheart2743



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Family, Friendship, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Kisses, Love, Miscommunication, Pining, Romance, angst sometimes, awkward occasionally
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24445450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomholdsmyheart2743/pseuds/Phantomholdsmyheart2743
Summary: Dazed after the initial unmasking, Christine makes the decision to confront her mysterious teacher while warring with feelings she can't verbalize. Pairing E/C.
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 12
Kudos: 60





	1. Reparations

**Author's Note:**

> This story is also posted on fanfic under the same username! I love reviews and feedback, so please don't hesitate to say hi!

She intended to apologize. Her dreams had been troubled since the night she had covered Carlotta's role. Full of fire and death, full of his anguished screams and her own staccato heartbeat.

She missed the soft tones of his voice leaking from the walls, the feeling of her ribs expanding as she breathed for him during their lessons. Surely there was something wrong with her? He was a monster, a wraith, a ghost of the cellars. Yet…

There were other dreams too, half-remembered and ashamed. Echoes of a voice and feelings of joy, the thrill in her throat as she answered that voice spreading through her like honey upon toast. She woke hot and fevered, aching for something. She never went out. It had been two weeks.

Raoul had called several times, but now she found no solace in her childhood friend. His blue eyes were clouded now with something more than childhood fondness, and it scared her away. She did not think she was meant for a life as a lady of the gentry, and so answered his pleas with bemused negations. It was not him, it was the stage. And she knew he would make her stop if they wed, and that she could not bear.

Raoul did not understand. He didn't love opera as she did, could not feel the magnetizing pull of the stage. He was a beholder of the art, but had never himself been possessed. Not like she, not like Erik.

It was that very camaraderie she missed, and so she had gotten up before the break of dawn. At first she had just sat upon the edge of her bed, fully clothed, staring at a ray of sunlight as it crept up her wall, breathing in and out until she felt half mad.

Then she had shot up like a flare and dashed to the kitchen, craving the sweetness of sugar, the indulgent creamy purr of butter. As she blended and mixed an idea oozed its way into her mind. She would take Erik some cookies, she would apologize and explain. Everything would be fine. Everything would be normal again.

She painstakingly baked a batch of cookies, carefully placed them in a basket, and set off to the cellars. No light, no direction, not a sound. She had found the lake, followed the sound of lapping water. The gondola that she hazily remembered was not there, and so she had slithered along the stone ledge that rimmed the lake, gripping the grimy wall with both hands. She held the basket of cookies tightly between her teeth. Her jaw ached by the time she reached the opposite shore.

His door was unlocked. She thought him more careful than that, had expected to have to holler and bang at the door, but instead she slipped in, afraid to even whisper his name.  
She found him without a mask to hide his face. Sleeping quietly. Long body curled like a cat on the chaise. In his shirtsleeves. A cup of tea on the floor beside him, cold now. She had not been expected. She looked at him, the pink of strawberries in her cheeks. It seemed too intimate a view of her maestro. That dark, avenging ghost-angel of her dreams. The friend she had loved from afar…

Oh—if he only knew of all the nights that she had cried thinking he was in Heaven. Out of her reach like a star. Now? He looked much softer. Face no longer distorted with primal rage, he was not so terrible. Mottled skin bloated across his upper lip, then thinned to what seemed the point of breaking across his cheekbone. A scar like those left by birthing tongs cut the line of his brow, red and rope-like. His eyelashes were so long. Long and thin like spider's legs. His hair must be real, it must! It had come free of the products that tamed it. And it was not black as she had supposed, but a rich deep red like the finish on a Cherrywood cabinet. So dark it was nearly black; strands clinging to the perfect side of his face. His eyes, she remembered, had shone like her favorite stone: emerald.

Christine felt foolish standing there, as if she did not belong. A little girl covered in slime, carrying a basket full of slightly burnt cookies. She had never felt so…small. But she was her father's daughter, and he had not raised a coward.

Tentative tiptoes forward, a shaking hand extended to touch his shoulder. "Erik…?"

He started as if he had woken with a knife to his throat, eyes feral and muscles tight. She feared him. They locked eyes and he seemed to deflate, emitting a strangled gasp. He covered his face. She turned away full of emotions she couldn't decipher, only knowing somehow that it was wrong of her to see him.

"Why are you here?" He demanded. She turned to face him, and he was still covering his face. She idly wondered what he would do should she pull his hand from his face, make him talk to her about everything. Instead she raised the basket.

"I made you cookies. I thought that you might want to have tea with me today….?" Her eyes again fell on the cup. He followed her gaze with a slack-jawed expression.  
"But you already had tea—I'm sorry, this was stupid."

"No, no. Forgive me. I'll take—I mean…" He stared blankly at her. "You're covered in slime."

Christine flushed to the roots of her hair. "The gondola was gone."

"Had I even the slightest inkling that you would come…but I thought you'd try to forget me."

The silence seemed to laugh at them both. "Do you have somewhere I could wash?"

"Of course. This way."

He led her down the hall and to a spacious bath-chamber. All marble. The tub was huge. They stood awkwardly. He still had a hand to his face.

"I have towels and soap. I can run you a bath? But your dress… You shouldn't put it back on, you'll catch your death if—" He abruptly turned on his heel and walked away, returning a few seconds later with a bundle of fabric and wearing a mask. He thrust the bundle at her timidly, nearly dropping it when their hands touched.

"Thank you." She whispered. Erik turned on the taps.

"I'll put the kettle on. Let me know if you need anything?"

Christine stripped quickly and pinned up her hair, which was clean; a small mercy. It took hours to dry. The tub was full when she slipped into the water, sighing at the warmth that worked its way back into her bones. A bar of soap sat upon the ledge of the tub.

It was his. So strange a thing to think of, as she rubbed it over her arms; it had touched his scarred face. This bar smelling of sandalwood and peppermint had been guided over Erik's naked body. It gave her a thrill to think of, though she hardly knew why.

It was the same thrill that renewed when she slipped on the clothes he had offered. Black silk nightclothes, too long for her. But luxuriant against her bare flesh. Unsure of what to do with her clothes she left them on the floor, and padded down the hall with bare feet. She felt strangely naked without her usual barrage of undergarments, but the scent of the lake had permeated everything.

She found Erik in the kitchen, immaculately dressed once more. He turned around when he heard her whisper his name. The parting of his lips, the soft sound he made; it pinked her cheeks and she crossed her arms over her breasts.

The tea things were set. Her cookies were upon a plate. His teapot was bone china with gold inlay. His cups matched. It was so ridiculously normal that she began to laugh, a sound that had been foreign to her for the past two weeks.

The kettle whistled.

"Please, sit down." Erik said. "We have much to talk about."


	2. Disscussions

"That's not the same mask." Christine murmured, cradling the warmth of her teacup. Three sugars. No cream; she had seen his slight eyebrow raise.

"No." Erik replied noncommittally. His fingers tapped anxiously against the table, full of rhythm and purpose. "The silk makes it easier."

"I like it." She did. It seemed to cover slightly less of his face, removing the shadow from his chin and jawline. He shifted uneasily as she watched him, green eyes glowing with soft wonder. Perhaps to distract her, he picked up the cookies, which he had laid upon a plate.

"You made these?"

"I bake when I'm upset, sometimes. It probably isn't a healthy habit, but…" She shrugged, absently twirling her fingertip over the rim of her cup. "Try one, please. They may be a bit burnt because my oven heats unevenly."

Erik's hand reached for the plate. He picked up one of the delicate almond cookies carefully, raising it to his nose. The eyebrow she could see lifted in surprise. "Brandy?"

"Kirsch. My mother's recipe. I used to sell them in the square sometimes. They've always been my favorite."

Erik nodded, studying the simple cookie as if it were a rare jewel. She waited. She could feel the beating of her heart. He tasted it at last, a soft noise escaping him.  
"Christine!" He exclaimed so loudly that she jumped, jostling the china.

"Yes?"

"Never have I tasted such an immaculate confection. Brava, my dear. It is not easy work for me to enjoy sweets."

Christine smiled. "Have more. I'll make them again, for next time." Erik blinked. There was no question mark in her tone.

"Next time." He repeated. "I'd like that."

The normality of their interactions made Christine's head ache. She felt as though she should be angry and mistrustful and that he should be penitent and unsure. But they had known each other for longer than she had realized. Their bond adapted. Looking at his face, Christine could feel everything in her bubbling to the surface. Words that she did not want to speak, but knew she must clawed their way up her throat.

"Why did you do it?" Breath ragged like she had been running.

"At last our little party coms to its point."

Christine made a sound of distress.

"Forgive me. I have been alone for so long. I forget the effect my humor produces; I am too acidic for most palates."

Christine kept tapping. Her ears began to ring.

"I heard you singing. I heard you singing and for once there was color in the world. I could breathe again. Your voice, untrained as it was seemed to hold the future. For the first time in years I wanted to compose again. I loved you as one loves the stars, but then you started to cry…much like now." He drew a silk handkerchief from his pocket, tentatively handing it to her.

"Allegro," She whispered, "My little dog, my only friend. He died that day."

"You like animals, Christine?" He shook his head, recalling the point. "Never mind, that is a conversation for another time. Then, I only knew that an angel was weeping. Drawn to you, like all moths are drawn to light—even if it may kill them—I came closer. I was in the rafters of the prop attic. I heard you call out to Heaven, to your father, to anyone to send you—"

"An angel of music." She rasped. Christine stilled her tapping hands, the kitchen blurred once more. Tears scraping at her eyes. The dull throb of a headache behind her right eye.  
Erik called her back to herself, offering fresh tea. "You look pale, my dear."

"I feel so foolish. In a way, it was my fault. Everything was my fault. I was so stupid. So naïve. I wanted an angel, but I wanted a friend more. Erik?"

"Yes, Christine?"

"Why did you never admit it? Why did you let me believe?"

"You have seen me and my face. The truth seemed less likely than a fantasy."

Silence save the echoed lapping of the waves. Silence save the pop and hiss of fire. Tea grew cold in their cups. The sense of an ending. At last someone spoke.

"Christine, can you forgive me? Perhaps not now, but someday."

"I should be afraid." She answered, blue eyes far away. "Why am I not afraid?" She pushed the black silk of his nightclothes up to her elbows, studying her pale wrists. "My pulse is steady."

"I wish mine were." Erik murmured


	3. Peace

Chapter Three

It was evening by the time they'd finished; the day having slipped by in such a strange manner that Christine was surprised when Erik announced the time as seven. He insisted that if she would not stay he was duty-bound to escort her to the surface. Regrettably there was nothing to be done with her clothes immediately, but he assured her that they should be laundered to the best of his abilities. The thought of his pale hands upon her undergarments colored her cheeks, but she submitted to his ideas silently. She thought it best that she did not stay.

It felt like a recalled dream, to have his hand in hers, his cloak around her shoulders. Eyes heavy and languid as she walked beside him, feet sliding in borrowed shoes. How strange it was!

Her mind was too full of whirling nuances to be charming, and the walk was strangely bereft of social graces. She only knew that with the silk of his clothes against her skin it had seemed too intimate to sleep in his home. Too strange. She could not see him in the dark, but she could feel the energy that rolled off him in pulses. Uneasy and peculiar. 

Dangerous. Like standing on the roof of the Opera's ledge, or daring to reach the highest note of a cadenza.Her breath came quick and soft. She was afraid to speak. Revelatory information had crowded out rational thought. She knew him to be man with all the faults of men. Secrets deep. Empathetic intuition insisted that he felt strongly for her, but she dared not reflect. Not now. Not here in the dark.

She slipped, and he caught her. Her face to his chest. She could hear his heart. Beating too fast. No. Now was not the time to think of such things.

"It gets slippery here, mind your step." And he did not let her go, so she heard the rumble of his voice intimately.

At last she pulled away, but kept her hand in his.

Light began to prick at her lids when they reached the top of a staircase. A cool, dry hall. The air smelled of hay and rosin, of flower water and the herbed lozenges that all performers rely on in times of crisis. At the end of the hall, like an optical illusion, was the murky view of her dressing room.

"Oh." Word like a plea. She found herself convulsively clutching at his hand. It was so strange, to return from the depths to something so normal as piles of costumes and powders, to errant shoes thrown across the floor.

A small click and the mirror slid open, revealing the dying flowers from opening night, sent to her by love-stricken Parisians.

She let go of Erik's hand, stood speechless in the frame.

"You were here. All along. Just there…?" She felt her head begin to ache anew, and sank to her knees softly. He heard the question in her voice.

"Not always. Angels are sacred."

She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled. He stood tall and ethereal. He could vanish in a second, and she felt fear strike her at the thought.

"I would like us to be friends, Erik. I want you to teach me. Face to face. No more illusions."

"I agree."

They nodded together, like toy soldiers. She took his offered hand and stood.

"Shall I leave you now? Or do you wish to return to your apartment?"

Christine surveyed the mess of her dressing room. "I've lost track of time."

"It is half past seven. Already quite dark." He appraised her as she twirled an errant curl around her finger. The candlelight made it seem like sparks were flying from her hair.

"Lucia." She met his eyes. "Carlotta is still gone. They say that she may return to Italy and sing at an opera house there permanently. They cast me instead. I wanted to tell you before."

"My dear!" He reached as if to brush her face with his fingertips. "You shall be the crown jewel in the diadem of Paris after this. Your Marguerite exalted them, but your Lucia will bring them to their knees."

Christine laughed, clearing a few crinolines off the chaise in the corner. "I worry about the mad scene."

"You will sing it in its original key." Erik stated. Christine sat upon the cleared chaise with a sigh, patting the space beside her. Erik started, but cautiously crossed to sit beside her.

"I wasn't, not without my teacher." Christine replied. "I couldn't do it justice without coaching. My voice has not been as dexterous lately as it was under your tutelage."

"We shall begin tomorrow. I must remember the score…" He tapped on his knee thoughtfully. "I believe I recall how it goes."

"From memory?" Christine asked softly. He nodded absently. The depth of his musicality was astounding. A whole score from memory alone—likely countless more. But she knew his pitch was perfect, his range beyond comprehension, compositions beyond compare; it only followed that he was an unparalleled savant. She missed his voice. He had not sung for her in so long.

"Erik?"

"Yes?"

"Sing for me. Sing me to sleep."

"Now? It is early."

"Lately I've had such dreams." She looked into the mirror, saw the exhaustion written in her face, saw Erik beside her. "Now things are as they should be, and I find myself so very tired. I missed your voice. Please, sing." She closed her eyes and lay back. A folded chemise for a pillow.

"What would you like to hear?"

"Something of yours."

And he began to sing. Voice like honey spread across fresh bread, like the smell of the air after rain. Comforting and smooth, rich and honest. Such a beautiful tone. He sounded too marvelous to bear, and she felt her own talent must shrink beneath the effortless stream of his voice.

He sang a song of lost love and a longing that reached beyond the grave, of passion without compare, and of a bond that was woven of music. She felt herself become heavy in the way one becomes heavy after a lazy day in the sun; those days when the warmth seems to seep outward from the bones. She felt safe, and everything was soft. Nothing but the reverberating echoes of his voice in her ears as she descended into pleasant dreams.

"Christine…." And his call was like the kiss of the ocean.

When she woke, it was dawn. She could tell, for the ballet girls had begun whispering in the halls. The rustle of tulle and the clatter of hairpins falling to the floor had served as her alarm. Erik was gone, as she knew he would be. She sat up, and was surprised to find a parcel at her feet, tied with a black ribbon. There was a note.

Christine,  
I am afraid your clothes were beyond even my ability to save. I took the liberty of procuring these in their stead. I hope they serve. I will come for you at noon.  
~E

Christine ran her hands over the words. His writing was immaculate. Eagerly, she unwrapped the parcel. Within were undergarments, made of finer materials than she could afford; a pair of walking boots, black leather; and a dress. It was simply cut, but made of satin. Blue. The exact deep blue of her eyes. A detail only he would notice. The neckline walked the fine line between modesty and flirtatious. The sleeves fanned out at the elbow, layers of lace and blue ribbon. It was lovely.

She looked over at the mirror, and smiled. Her dreams had been pleasant, and it was evident in the glow of her cheeks, the light in her eyes.

"CHRISTINE!"

Shocked, Christine barely had enough time to hide Erik's note behind her back before a whirlwind of tulle burst into the room: Meg Giry, constantly aflutter with gossip and Christine's dearest friend. Her hazel eyes sparkled as she pushed aside masses of her blonde hair, tying it back impatiently with a ribbon.

"You don't mind, do you? It's so crowded in there—I swear I was nearly trampled—goodness, did I tell you what Sorelli said?" She broke off laughing. "No, I can't—it's too wicked to be heard by your virgin ears." Meg turned at last. Christine saw the realization of what she was wearing cross Meg's face.

"Let me explain—"

"Maybe not so virginal after all." She clapped gleefully. "Christine, Christine who have you been with." Plucking at Christine's silk-covered shoulder. "A man…with money. And what is this?"

Quick as a whip she snatched the paper from Christine's hand. "Meg!"

Meg dodged Christine's efforts to regain her property easily, leaping delicately over the chaise. Christine, never as graceful as her friend, and not blessed with legs as long, tripped over a petticoat and landed on her rear.

"Meg, that's private!" She protested from the floor.

"I'll say," Meg crowed. "Your clothes were beyond his ability to save? You caught a wild one! Who is this mysterious and wealthy, E?" She plopped beside Christine on the floor and offered the note.

Defeated, Christine reclaimed the paper and stroked her fingertips over the writing. "It isn't what you think. He's my instructor."

"Of course he is…I'm sure he's taught you a lot…" 

"Really, Meg! I'm shocked at you." Christine blushed.

"You've heard enough of my stories to know my moral compass points towards men." It was true. Meg had broken more hearts than Christine could keep track of.

"Is he handsome?" Meg bounced, poking at Christine. "Oh—you went even more red—he must be!"

Irritated now, Christine folded into herself. "Aren't you late?"

"Aren't you my best friend who has previously shown little to no interest in sex—"

"Meg!"

"Now wearing the silken pajamas of a man who has written you a love letter and sent along a box of fancy undergarments," She waved them around to show her point. "Highly suspicious. I am intrigued as can be." She leaned her chin upon her hands theatrically, rolling to her stomach and kicking her stockinged legs. "Sounds like story time."

Christine groaned, standing. "I promise you, it's nothing."

"Maybe I'll take a crack at him then!"

The thought of beautiful, bold, free-spirited Meg hanging upon Erik's arm and every word felt wrong. If anyone must hang upon Erik's arm it should be…. Christine shook the thought from her head.

"No." She said, grabbing the clothes from Meg and slipping behind the screen to change.

"Non-negotiable?"

"Yes."

"Well, what an attitude to take: you tell me there's a handsome—and rich—man whom you have only a platonic relationship with and then tell me he's off limits. I'm wounded by your lack of empathy toward my cause."

Behind the screen, Christine rolled her eyes as she pulled the dress over her head. "Do up the back of this for me."

Meg obliged. "I expect details, at least a description—a name."

"His name," But she stopped herself, the curl of his name trapped within her mouth. It was still hers, and Meg could never understand. "He is entirely mysterious. The most musically gifted man I have ever met. He is tall and immaculately groomed, always." She smiled fondly. "His eyes are deep green. Not dark…but deep."

"You like him." Meg stated, tapping Christine's back to signify she was done buttoning her up. Christine shook her head, grabbing a comb from her dressing table and running it through her long curls.

"Here, let me." Meg offered. Christine gladly relinquished the comb and watched their reflection in the mirror as Meg somehow managed to get her hair combed and up in less than a minute.

"I never understood how you can manage it so quickly."

"Ballerina secrets. Don't change the subject."

"It's difficult to explain…and you're very late."

Meg huffed her agreement and skipped to the door. "Later. Details." Waving a warning finger, she left.

Christine sighed. Life had been so much simpler before she knew Erik was a man. Simpler, but not better. As she contemplated the new turn of events she absently folded Erik's nightclothes. Unsure what the protocol was for returning the items, she sat them upon the edge of the chaise.

With a last cursory glance at the room she left for rehearsal, wondering all the while why it was she had such a vivid memory of Erik's eyes. Of his hand in hers.

Deep below the surface, Erik composed as he hadn't done since the day he first heard Christine sing. The heavy tones of his opera had become nuanced, softened with lighter moments. He had not realized how deeply the estrangement from Christine had affected him. She had brought the music back.

No longer bereft of muse, he was free once more to become the music. The colors of the notes caressed him playfully, all the textures combining to create a tapestry of liquid light. He could taste the notes upon his tongue as he sang them. He could feel his heart beating as if he belonged in the world.

Trouble crept to lean over his shoulder as he worked, whispering the things he dared not speak of. His mask. His face. His past. All that they had not discussed. She could tolerate him, but could she see him? Could she ever see and accept his face as she saw and accepted his soul?

Pushing the thoughts from his mind, he played on. Music had brought them together. Music alone. He would use it to show her all she meant to him. All his art, for her. Every note a confession of love. A manifesto to tell her all the things he could not put into words. An opera. His opera: Don Juan Triumphant


	4. Distraction

Christine's thoughts were full of music. Music and ineffable wisps of desire. She visualized Erik's voice, twining around and through her like the steady hands of a lover and flushed for reasons she couldn't understand. The air smelled of grease paint and rosin as she traversed the stage, libretto clutched tight to her chest.

In the pit, Reyer was snapping at the string section. The pizzicato twang of tuning instruments, ballerinas in the left wing carefully extending their legs behind them. Christine felt eyes upon her and blushed despite herself, such singular focus could only be Erik. He had come after all! She cast her eyes to Box Five, hoping that he would reveal himself.  
The libretto fell from her arms, and the sheet music scattered like a flock of birds. For in the private box of the Opera Ghost, sat Raoul.

Sheet music scattered from her hands, drifting like a flock of startled moths across the stage and into the pit. Her vision grew hazy as Raoul stood and mouthed her name. She bent and collected the papers, the muffled giggling of the ballerinas ringing in her ears. In truth, there was not a reason in the world why Raoul should not be at rehearsals. He was, after all the patron, and was endowed with all the rights that the fact was heir to.

"Here, let me." That clear, honest voice. Raoul. He handed her a stack of music. "How you can ever remember the words is beyond me, but you are perfection at it, Christine…"

She snatched the offered papers, feeling the color in her cheeks. Pure nerves, nothing more. But he was handsome in his way, like a prince in a fairytale. How her childhood self would have loved the closeness of him, how she would have hung on every word that passed his lips.

"I called several times, but you always seemed to be out." He stood with awkward precision, a far cry from the boy she once knew, so rough and tumble in Perros. Ever so dear. "It is great to see you, Christine. I—"

"Miss Daae!" Reyer clapped briskly. "Get yourself in order. We commence in two minutes." He scurried through the pit, tapping his watch nervously. "Everyone, everyone—focus is key. This is art."

In her frantic path to her mark, she bumped Raoul's shoulder.

"I am sorry, Raoul." Her limpid eyes begged him for forgiveness he couldn't understand, and before he could reply, a stage manager ushered him into the wings.

The steady notes of her introduction flooded the theater, and the music poured out of her, as it always did. Completely limitless.

Erik's fingers were numb when he finished, the ink of his pen blotting them so his hands resembled a chimney-sweep's. He'd wash them later. Most of Act I complete, what a triumph!

A glance at the clock above the mantelpiece betrayed its cost. It had been hours; he had missed the rehearsal. Christine!

He stood with a jolt and dizziness overcame him. He muttered an expletive, desperately trying to remember if he had eaten anything since the meager tea he shared with Christine.  
No. Nothing. Not even a sip of water. It was at times like these, when he was overcome with physical weakness that he remembered he was indeed mortal. Mortal as any man, and prone to all their frailties, for all his playing in the realm of omniscient ghosts. All their frailties and all of their emotions. The hall swam before him, but he reached the kitchen.  
He pondered the crumbled cookies that Christine had left him, raising one to his lips. It tasted of sugar and almonds and affection. Every bite he took made him remember the way she had looked sitting across from him, beaming with pride that she had pleased her fallen angel. There had to be a way. He could not win her with his person, but perhaps with his music he stood a slight chance. They were meant to sing together, every weakness in his voice was mended by the addition of hers, and vice versa.

He thoughtfully drank water from a nearby teacup. There had to be a way.

Christine slammed the door of her dressing room, leaning against it, eyes closed. She had managed to sing all of her notes, remember her blocking, and best of all had managed to escape the inquires of Raoul. It was not that she did not wish to speak to him, but merely that she knew not what to say. She could hardly tell him the truth…that she had been halfway in love with a dream that was now real. That her nights were filled with half-remembered sighs. She blushed just remembering—

"That is a look of arousal if ever I saw one, Christine Daae! You will not escape telling me."

Christine's eyes snapped open, and she slid to the floor. "MEG!" Heart beating fast, she shot a furtive look at the mirror, then caught herself.

The ballerina sat perched on the edge of the chaise, Erik's pajamas on her lap. "He has good taste, that I'll admit." Like a cat, she rubbed the material to her cheek.

"Don't do that!" Christine snatched the material back. "He'd be mortified."

"Oh would he? Who is this mysterious he? I'm all ears…"

"You're exasperating. Must you know everything?"

"Yes."

Christine groaned, and folded her head onto her knees.

"What did I do?" Came Meg's protesting cry.

"Fine. If you must know. He is my teacher."

"I bet— "

"Meg!"

"I promise, I'll be an angel." She innocently crossed herself, then commenced bouncing like the incorrigible Nosy-Nelly she was. "What's he like? You don't even have to tell me his name! He can remain E until you wed or bed him."

"Meg, please."

Christine sat up on her heels, trying to find the words to describe Erik in all his moods and peculiarities, but her vocabulary fell short. She felt that she could sing of him, and all would be understood, but the music in her mind betrayed things too intimate for the presentation to another.

"He is kind except for when he's afraid. Then he lashes out…but he is more musical than anyone I've ever met. The music is always with him. Meg, I can't explain it, but I can hear it when we're both silent."

Meg observed her friend blankly. Christine was transformed. She glowed with a steady heat that emanated from her very soul. Meg confessed that she knew little of love beyond the game of it. But there, looking at her dearest friend, Meg would have bet her life upon its existence. Whoever "E" was, Christine loved him. And if he felt the same way, glowed as Christine did, they would be so very happy.

"I've heard enough." Meg whispered, carefully pressing her lips to the cheek of her friend. "If you ever want to tell me more I will gladly listen, but for now I can only wish you happiness."

She began to leave the room, but just before the door shut behind her Christine called her back.

"What should I do?" Christine murmured.

"Act as you. Everything will be fine."

Then she was gone, and Christine sat alone with her thoughts.

She knew not how many minutes had passed before a soft knock distracted her from her thoughts.

"Come in." A reflex, nothing more.

"Christine?"

"Oh…Erik!"

She stood and reached towards him, but then withdrew, wrapping her arms around herself. She couldn't be sure whether it was out of alarm or out of the desire to hold in her suddenly beating heart.

"Forgive my intrusion." He looked so out of place. A shadow of a man, a wisp of a dream. But real, so real. It seemed silly that she had to remind herself.

"I—thank you. For the dress. It's beautiful."

Erik's green eyes searched her. She was shocked at the visceral reaction she had to his presence. Heart beating, breath shallow. Fear, but infinitely more delicious.  
"I have been writing."

"Oh?" Her curiosity gave her the excuse to step closer. He politely withdrew. Part of her wished he would take her into his arms and kiss her on the mouth; the rational half was scandalized and confused. It was merely the two of them, alone. They were players bereft of prop, not even a tea set to diffuse the tension in the air.

"We should sit!" Christine announced, awkwardly motioning to the chaise.

They sat. The only sound was their strangely synchronized breathing.

"I saw Raoul." Christine said, but the second she said it she wished that she hadn't. Erik seemed to deflate, shrinking down into himself. She hastened to repair the damage.  
"For only a second. I haven't seen him since the night…. I, I don't know what to say to him. He…he loves me." Face burning, Christine wanted to hit herself. She had said it only to gauge his reaction, and was overcome with shame when she saw his face crumble.

"As he should. I suppose this fairy tale has been in the works since long before we two met. When is the happy day?"

"Just because someone loves you doesn't mean you have to love them back."

Erik laughed bitterly. "Quite right."

"I don't love him!" She stood, facing him. "He is an old dream."

"Dreams are some of the only things in this life that remain constant." He said it matter-of-factly, like someone saying they liked chocolate. He looked rather uncomfortable though, his body lurching forward as if to stand, her proximity to his knees seemed to prevent any attempts at moving.

She looked at him. He seemed composed despite his awkwardness, and the injustice of this inflamed her.

Rage boiled in her stomach. How to make him understand? Rage gave way to despair, discouragement, and finally nerves. Christine wrung her hands, compressing and releasing the fabric of her dress. She felt so...undone. It felt almost sacrilegious to argue with a man whom she had thought to be an angel for so long, and yet she had to contradict him. He was wrong. He was wrong and he didn't know that she had so often wished him a man. Did not know that the sinful curl of his voice around her name made her shake. But since she barely knew how to explain what she meant to herself she settled for sarcasm.

"Well if we're going to discuss the quantifiable rank of dreams then your mere existence means that you outrank any childhood inclinations of marrying up."

"Christine!" His shock was a palpable thing, and Christine felt herself deflate, shocked herself. She turned away to hide her flaming face, only to realize that he could surely see her blush in the mirror.

Ever the gentleman, Erik rose to his feet. He was so close that she could feel the heat of his body radiating across her back. If she turned to face him her breasts would brush against him.

She met his gaze in the mirror. He had lost his look of confidence. His hands hovered over her shoulders, long fingers spread. He curled them into fists and forced his hands to his sides. She felt the loss of anticipated touch keenly, and stepped away from him in disappointment.

"He doesn't understand." She whispered. He nodded stiffly. "He only hears the music. He can't listen." She stretched absently, pointing and flexing her toes. "My father used to play for us, and Raoul always tired of it after a few songs. I could have listened to Papa play forever, it was like magic. I never understood that he couldn't hear it."

She turned at last, staring into his green eyes. Their silence was strangely comfortable. And Christine felt that looking into her eyes, Erik must understand why she had told the story. Willed him to understand that she could not love Raoul.

Erik, he understood nothing more than the beauty of the ever-changing crystalline blue of her eyes


	5. Desire

They were silent all the way down, and once they arrived he had begun to play without introduction or preamble, as though he couldn't bear to mar his creation with words. Once he had started, she understood. She watched from the doorway, glad to have something to lean against.

He played, and she was once again awed by the skill of his fingers, the furrowing of his brow as he caressed the keys, hair stirring from its slicked back shine in strands that stood in sharp relief over the white of his mask. The way he swayed with the music, breathed within the rhythm. The way that he seemed to lose all of himself and become something else entirely. The piano almost combusting with the power of his compositions. He was art.

And the music! Oh—such music! It pounded against her like a storm, stirring things she didn't dare speak aloud. It was an opera, with all the passion that entailed, and yet… Erik, ever the perfectionist, had somehow added more, improving and twisting convention like melted glass in a fire, molded into something entirely new. It was too wild, and suddenly she wished that he would sing the words, to give her something that would keep her from flying away.

Images assaulted her mind of fleshly forms combining, of passion-filled cries in the dark. The sharp scratch of violins and the exhilaration of standing before an audience after a successful aria. Every one of her tortured, broken dreams pieced together and played across her vision, making her clutch her chest and gasp. Everything in her life suddenly coincided into clarity, though afterwards she was unable to recollect how.

A point came, as she watched him play, where her ears began ringing as her vision blurred about the sides, and all she could hear was the music. All she could think of was that a piano had never been played thusly, and that Erik had ascended in her mind once more to the realm of the divine.

His hands stilled, and there was silence save the lapping of the lake against the shore. Christine felt abnormally flushed, and was embarrassed by the force of her heartbeat. Surely, he could hear it?

"What do you think?" Came his silk-smooth voice. He sounded uncertain. He looked almost small. But instead of these facts drawing her back to Earth, she became even more confused, staring at him with tear-pricked eyes. She had a vague ache in the base of her spine, and couldn't be sure if it stemmed from holding herself together or was merely the physical manifestation of her desire to touch him.

"Christine?"

She felt that she should applaud, but couldn't seem to move her arms, and suddenly it was as if all of her had turned to gelatinous sludge because at the sound of his voice she had entered her body again.

"Oh!" She cried in surprise, and she tried to step towards him. There were clouds around him. Clouds! She reached to touch one, and they turned grey, then black. She saw his mouth move as he called her name, and felt the ground open to swallow her up.

Warmth is what woke her. Light shone yellow across her eyelids. She inhaled, the air felt clean. She turned, stretching like a cat.

"Oh, thank God!"

Her eyes snapped open and she sat up. The first thing she saw was Erik's green eyes. He was on his knees looking down at her, and the sunlight formed a halo around his face.

"Oh." She said, "We're outside." She looked around and saw the statue of Apollo. The roof, then.

"Christine, oh Christine!" He pressed her hand impulsively, then quickly withdrew when he had realized what he had done. She noted this, but did not comment.

He wasn't wearing his jacket. She looked down and saw that she was sitting on it. He looked very informal in his shirt-sleeves.

"I apologize for the liberty, but I felt that you needed fresh air." He looked away, body shifting nervously.

"I never answered you." She made as if to stand, and he leapt to his feet and offered her his hand. She murmured her thanks and together they strolled to the edge and looked out over all of Paris.

"About the music? Never you mind, it is far to experimental. I understand if it shocked you. I merely need to make some adjustments to—"

"No!" She shouted shrilly, surprising them both. "No, you mustn't change a note. Promise me?" She met his eyes, reached up as if to brush his hair from his face then thought better of it. "Promise me." She said again. He nodded.

"You'll ruin it if you change it." She couldn't put it into words. Instead, she awkwardly pulled him towards her in a brief hug. She registered nothing but the feel of his shirt against her cheek. He froze, and when she met his gaze she saw a flush of color in his unmasked cheek. She ducked her head, grabbed one of her wrists and pulled it to her, pressing the fist it made to her thigh. One two three four. One two three four.

"It's called Don Juan Triumphant." Erik said at last. "I wrote it for you."

The words came before she registered anything else. "I want to sing it. With you."


	6. What Music Reveals

He contemplated her appraisingly. He seemed as if he were unsure of anything except for the fact that she was in front of him, but his startled gaze showed he was beginning to doubt even that. The corner of his mouth twitched.

"Please." And the word was so visceral that she shied away from the sound of her own voice. There was nothing more important than his voice twining with hers amidst the danger of his passionate music. She had lost control of her hands again; his icy hiss confirmed that she had caught his hand in hers. She did not let go, but met his gaze evenly, though her heartbeat was staccato in double-time. His fingers were long and cold; she entwined them with hers, berating herself for her forwardness. They were palm to palm.

His mouth moved as if he was about to reply, but he turned abruptly, pulling her after him through the exit. He didn't stop to retrieve his jacket, and she made a noise of protest, gathering it up at his momentary pause.

He did not speak as he pulled her along the pathways to his home, but she heard his breath, shallow and uneven; a far cry from his usually silent control.

She knew nothing with any clarity save that she remembered her dreams. All of them—every hot, torturous whisper of his mouth and every imagined touch of his musician's hands.

She blushed, and thanked God for the darkness that hid her wanton face. She had never been so aware of another person as she was in that instant. Her senses were heightened; she felt every joint of his hand against hers, heard his breath, caught his scent: paper, ink, the spices of the orient.

"Erik." She breathed. And her tone made him stop, she felt him turn to her in the dark. She visualized his eyes and a soft sigh left her. She shook with the desire to hold him, and she had no words to entreat his understanding.

"Christine?" He released her hand, voice dripping concern. Pressure at her shoulders. "We are almost there."

She could only nod, quaking.

The rest of the journey was a blur. Even the splashing water from the lake could not cool her heat.

The music room was as they left it. Erik carefully replaced his jacket as she handed it to him, and sat upon the piano bench. Unwilling to be far from him any longer, she sat beside him, so close that their shoulders touched.

"Are you ready?" He whispered. She could feel his breath on her cheek.

"Yes."

He began to play, and all of her became like unset gelatin. He began to sing, and her soul glowed. She had never been so happy.

My sweet desire rests upon the lips  
Of my only beloved  
To steal it back would be a sin   
I willingly suffer Hell to be in her  
Sweet bedchamber  
If pleasure be wrong we have long ago  
Passed the point of no return  
Her beckoning lips call me forth  
Hear the witchcraft of her lips  
As she entices me  
Such pleasure is an untarnished sin

Christine breathed deeply through the rest in the music, blushing furiously as she read ahead to the words that she was to sing. Her heart was fluttering in all her pulse points.

My lover comes to me at night  
Full of the sweetest promises  
The gift of our bodies entwined  
Drives me to the edge of bliss  
I fall because of my surrender  
But do not repent the heat  
Of him against me as we kiss  
Together we tumble till the dawn  
I wake smiling  
Unrepentant and sated

His voice joined hers on the final lines, and she soared higher than she ever had. The lyrics done, the song continued, intimating the pleasure of the lovers as they exited. They kiss. The words glared from the libretto in red ink, penned like a wished-for impossibility. They kiss…

She looked at him, unmasked cheek closest to her gaze. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted her. How had she not seen it before? He was an artist; he lived his desires through his creation, and he desired her. He loved her.

"You love me." She said.

The piano came to a screeching halt. His breathing deepened. He would not look at her. She could see the tension in him, and knew the consequence of her verbal transgression as he stood.

"Perhaps it is time that you return."

She sat, motionless as he strode to the exit. Anything to keep from meeting her eyes. A blind sort of panic welled within her, like champagne had replaced every muscle in her body. She could not stop her next words. "You wrote it for us. You're Don Juan, I am Aminta and—"

"Don't." He sank to the floor facing the opposite wall. She stood, and moved so she could see his face, sinking to the ground beside him.

"Erik, I—"

"I do not need your pity."

"I've never pitied you."

"Don't lie to me."

"I never lie to you. Can you say the same? You love me." He reacted as though she had struck him, caving into himself. There was silence, and then he erupted.

"Yes. YES. The monster loves the princess. Satisfied? How sad, how sweet, how pitiful that an improper caricature of a man should love. Should desire. Should yearn for such perfect beauty..." He reached out as if to touch her, then drew away, standing imposingly before her.

"Mademoiselle, how sorry I am to have disgusted you with my desires." He bowed mockingly.

Christine, who had been sitting in shock upon the floor, stood up at his bow. Got so close to him that their chests nearly touched. She could see the pulse of his neck.  
"You never would have told me." She said, and the defeated pose of his head affirmed her suspicions. "But you love me." She whispered.

"I tried not to." He hissed as her hands caressed their way up his arms. "You are disgusted. Afraid. Scandalized. You are—"

"Wrong." She corrected. "I am not afraid of you. I have never been afraid of you." Her breath caught in her throat as her breasts brushed his chest.

"Your pupils are dilatated, your breathing is shallow: fear."

"Not fear." She boldly brushed his face with her curled fingers and he shied away, turning to hide his tears. "Something else." She released his arms and brought her ear to his chest, feeling his heart jump; the shaky shudders of his breath.

"Do I dare dream that you feel—or could feel—anything for me? Oh Christine, what gave me away?"

"They kiss," She whispered. "The only stage direction." He wrapped his arms around her softly, burying his fingers in her hair. Christine shuddered closer to him, tilting her head up to meet his masked gaze. He looked upon her as a worshipper looks at a statue of a goddess.

"They kiss." He asked her with his eyes, half-scandalized at his presumption. She smiled.

There was silence save breaths and the lapping of the lake as he slowly—oh so slowly—bent his head towards hers. She rose on pointe to wrap her arms around his neck, heart hammering, desire coiling within her stomach.

Their lips met. They kissed. They kissed. They kissed.


	7. Fallout

There is clarity in impulse. Such sweet clarity as they kissed. Christine had never been kissed like this. With such gentle care, the knife-edge of passion lurking in every caress. She felt, quite plainly that she could kiss him forever. She was too occupied to consider what that meant.

In this captured infinity where lips replaced the words that neither of them could bear to speak. His lips were against hers. Fingers dancing across the bare skin at his collar, one hand in the thickness of his black hair. Her body against him, marring his manufactured perfection. He was all sharp planes, hard muscle. She sighed, and her mouth parted to his searching tongue. Erik, Erik, Erik. She wanted to murmur all sorts of things to him, sweet nothings affirming her affection. But her mouth was otherwise occupied.

He tasted of tea and citrus, she tilted her head to allow him more access. He took the opportunity to press a line of wet kisses to her throat, tongue swirling against the flesh of her neck. A sound she was certain she had never made slipped from her. Embarrassed, she buried her hot face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of sandalwood. He pulled away violently, grasped her shoulders; pushing her from him.

"Erik—" She reached for him, mourning the contact of their chests together; the music of his breath. Her heart had never beat this quickly.

"Forgive me." His hands, his beautiful hands that had so recently been anchoring her to him now covered his masked face. He ducked in shame, hair mussed. "I should have never…" He dropped to his knees, "I should die for this transgression."

She regarded him in shock, unable to find the words that had seemed so clear moments before when they had been twined. To her immense dismay, he took her silence as agreement. He approached her on his hands and knees, the fabric of his trousers sending discordant squeals into the room as he slid over the carpet.

"Forgive me, it was the music. I should have known the power of the music." It was grotesque, the way her Erik; her dignified and beautiful Erik now crawled towards her like a beast. He murmured apologies without ground. Her mouth was stopped, her emotions creating a gag that closed her throat. She found herself stumbling backwards, tears of frustration streaming down her cheeks as he eloquently regretted what had been on of the most enjoyable moments of her existence.

"Christine, I will take you back. You must not cry, I will never taint you again." His green eyes were luminous with tears, and she wanted so much to make him understand.

She wanted him to know, but her mouth opened and closed without sound. Her voice unwilling to emerge and reassure him. She was not bold enough after this sudden rejection to embrace him. She was too bewildered to do anything but cry because he was so wrong. It was so wrong that he be on the floor, groveling. She felt her stomach twist, and ran out of the room, ignoring his cries. She made it to the shore of the lake before she fell to her knees on the rocky shore and vomited.


	8. Discovery

He had not followed, and when she reentered his home, he was not there. She was grateful for his absence, to not have him see her shaking and pale, likely smelling of lakeshore. 

She needed a plan, needed to find him and somehow convey that she cared for him. More than that, she needed him to know that she did not share his regret.

She padded down the hall in stockinged feet, carefully holding her soiled overskirt. Her silk slippers were outside. Beyond repair. She liked the idea of him seeing them when he returned. He would know, that she was not gone.

Outside the bath chamber door there was a tray, and upon it steamed a cup of peppermint tea. Touched, she took it with her, sipping it in her undergarments as the tub filled. The herb soothed her nervous stomach, and she felt the tension leave her. As she sat on the edge of the tub, she noticed that there were three doors; the entrance, and a door on either side. Curious, she tried the door to the left: unlocked.

It could only be Erik's chamber. The walls were grey, and the furnishings dark. Spools of ribbon littered the dresser. No mirrors. A large bed with black sheets was impeccably made. Erik's dressing gown laid at the foot. The wardrobe was open, lines of crisp white shirts standing stark against the darkness. She noticed another door, and walked towards it. As she approached, she felt more and more uneasy. She ignored the voice in her head that told her to stop, and opened the door. Within the darkness was a coffin lined with white satin, the pillow showing the depression of use. A blanket was folded over the side. An unlit candle laid beside it. With horror, she understood, and began to cry again.

Erik paced the rooftop, desperately trying to regain any sense of composure. He felt useless, worthless, and all his intellect could not wash the memory of his sins away. He was a monster to force his lips upon her. He had frightened her. Mesmerized her like the freak that he was, taken advantage of her softness… She had been so soft. Her lips, the smile in her kiss. So utterly willing against him. It was the music, his music that had bent Persia to its knees. It was only natural that she would succumb. And yet, she had kissed him. Pressed herself to him. Surely it was the music that had made her forget what it was that loved her?

A creature. A corpse, no more. Still the easy intimacy, the softness of her cries as he had kissed her beautiful throat. He slammed his palm against the statue of Apollo, trying to shake off the memory of her searching lips. The tug of her hands in his hair. He could not expunge her. She was his drug of choice. She knew of his love now, had read his heart in his music.

He had disabled the traps; she would be safe if she left his home. He could not fault her for running, for not turning when he called. Just in case, he had left her tea. He dreaded the idea of finding it cold and untouched upon his return. With resolve, he turned from the view of Paris and went once more into the darkness.

He could hear sobbing from the lakeshore, and the thunder of water. Alarmed, he hastened his pace, running into his house, past some dainty shoes that could only belong to Christine. He heard a thud, and swore, thinking she had fallen. He burst into the bath chamber. The water was running over, drenching the floor and what seemed to be the majority of Christine's clothes. He turned off the taps, quickly engaging the floor drains he had installed.

The door to his chamber was open, and it was from there that the sobs emanated. A peek around the corner ascertained his suspicions, but nothing had prepared him for what he saw. Oh.

She stood in her underclothes holding a fire poker, striking his coffin again and again. It had been pushed over, the feathers of the lining exploding from the insides like dismembered organs. She had somehow managed to pry off one side, and was beginning on another when she saw him.

With a startled cry, she launched herself at him, the poker falling with a clang from her scraped palms.

Christine could hear the blood in her ears as she cried, "You should never be in that, promise me!" He didn't answer, and she struck his chest with her fist, trying to get any kind of agreement.

"Considering the state of the object—" Her glare silenced him.

"Promise me!" The confusion in his green eyes had her distraught, and she slid from his grip to the floor, boneless.

"I promise."

There was a silence as the air seemed to cool. They both regarded the ruins of the coffin. She had certainly ensured that his sleeping arrangements were to change.

"Christine," Erik finally ventured, "you should have never seen. If I had known that—"

Christine let loose a peal of entirely inappropriate laughter as she got to her feet.

"That what, Erik? That I would be upset? Who wouldn't be upset to know that someone they care about forgoes a perfectly good bed to sleep in a coffin?" He had no answer to give her.

"Vad fan tänkte du?" She shouted at him in her native Swedish, losing her command on French with her temper. What the hell were you thinking?

"I was not thinking." Erik said finally, chastened. He could hardly tell her that he deserved a coffin. There was no use sleeping in comfort, without a reason to wake. He could not tell her that before her, he used to pray that he would not wake up. Had seen a final irony in burying himself.

She gestured to the coffin. "I never want to see that again."

"I promise." He repeated.

She smiled weakly, feathers in her hair. Tear-stained cheeks and stockinged feet. Erik thought that he had never seen anything so beautiful.  
"We have to discuss a few things." She said.

"You wish to…despite," He gestured vaguely to encompass both his own person and the surrounding mess. He had been expecting a demand to take her home. He had expected the end.

Christine nodded, heart breaking once more at his lack of confidence when it came to matters of the heart. He turned his face so that his unmasked side was obscured. She hated that she could not see his expression. With a sigh, she left to finish her abandoned bath. Too tired to wonder what he would think anymore. When she closed the door, he was crouched on the floor, gently collecting moth-like feathers in his beautiful hands as if they were pieces of his heart.

She sank into the water, shocked. Her muscles ached; she had never been so…out of control in her life. Rage was not a quality that she associated with herself. But seeing that coffin had undone something in her that not even the death of her father had managed to touch.

It was wrong, there was no other word for thinking of him lying in a box as he breathed. To live underground was punishment enough. She had grabbed the poker without thinking, desperate to expunge the indentation of his head from the coffin's pillow. She remembered thinking: Death cannot have him. He is mine.

She ducked her head beneath the warm water. Why must this be so difficult? She had never been someone regarded as strong. She had often taken the easy path, until Erik. Every facet of him was a challenge for her to conquer, a puzzle to solve. He was infuriating, intoxicating, consuming. Even as an angel, he had pushed her beyond what she thought she was capable of. Now, as the complicated man that he was, he had succeeded in showing her sides of herself that she did not know. Christine the seeker, the initiator, the wanton, the furious. The lover. She came up for air.

Their kiss had been perfection, as if the earth had stopped turning. She had felt grounded in ways that she hadn't since the carefree days of her youth. She had not kissed him for his music; it wasn't coercion that had drawn her to him. It was desire. Desire that had pulled her to him since that first night when he had come through the mirror.

Desire that had been confined to dreams until he had manifested. Just thinking of his lips, his hands made her ache. She wanted him to touch her as he touched instruments, with the soft mastery of a virtuoso. To make her sing out her pleasure, the lyrics composed of tonal variations of his name.

It seemed indecent to feel as she did now, as she floated in lavender bubbles. She was tingling. She heard a gentle knock from the door on the right. The one room she had yet to investigate. She waited for the click of a closing door, his footsteps leaving, and stood. Erik must have found her something to wear.

Her skin felt almost raw as she wrapped herself in one of his plush towels, squeezing the water from her hair. Sighing, she opened the door. Gasped, because it was a beautiful, feminine chamber. Cream and blue. A shade so familiar because she saw it every time she looked in the mirror. Upon the bed was a simple nightdress, lacy and pressed. His dressing gown was beside it, a tender gift to preserver her modesty. A note in his ornate handwriting, ink red as blood. Red to match the rose that sat in the vase upon the nightstand. Another complication. Clearly this room was intended to be hers. Every aspect of it seemed to be chosen specifically to delight her. From the beautiful carpets that could only come from the orient, to the tiny peacocks that adorned the wallpaper trim.

She sat, stroked her palm across the embroidered silk of his dressing gown. Curious, she brought it to her nose. It smelled of ink and sandalwood. Of Erik. She took up the letter, and strode to the fireplace, let the heat send her wet hair into drying spirals as she read.

My dearest,  
I am still marveling that you stayed after my boorish behavior. I have disposed of the object you found so distasteful. You will never see it, or its equal while I live. I hope the nightdress I procured is sufficient, I had not imagined the need to have clothing available for your use. The presumption seemed distasteful.  
I am a foolish man, Christine. Forgive me.  
Yours,  
Erik

She forgave him. Of course she had forgiven him. It was hard to hold a grudge against actions that she could understand. She knew why he had disbelieved the honesty of her kiss. She saw the twist of logic in a man who had likely been called 'corpse' all his life finding sleep in a coffin.

But wasn't love supposed to be easy, effortless? Not strew with fits of temper, and stolen masks, interrupted kisses ending in tears. Her own life had become more dramatic than an opera! Everything about him was a battle, from his face to his fear. She didn't know what to do with him. Erik, the man wrapped in music who feared he was undeserving of kisses. He had given her a room in his home. He loved her.

And she…had so much to tell him. To ration through. He was to her what the moon was to the sun: necessary, but unfathomable. They misunderstood each other too easily. Her impulse was to give him everything, to speak freely and intimately. To touch with a carelessness that would be improper. Society and propriety screamed that she do the opposite. She feared it was a trait they shared. This connection between them was beyond anything she had felt, and yet it was so strong that it could be too much. Far too much when every particle of her being longed to be closer to a man who was afraid to believe that she could feel the same way.

She trailed her fingertips over his script. Somehow, she vowed. They would have to figure it out.


	9. Reconciled

He was reading by the fire, a common pastime if the multitude of books within his home were to be believed. It made perfect sense, Erik was the smartest man she had ever met. 

When he was an angel to her, he had told her stories about the world, answered every inquiry about subjects ranging from history to the sciences, architecture to arithmetic. He was brilliant. Hers. He turned a page; masked, hair slightly awry. She wanted to crawl onto his lap and wrap her arms around his neck. Bury her face in the crook of his neck, and feel the way his pulse rose at the contact. She wanted to blot out memories of coffins with the reality of his heartbeat. She refrained, naturally and studied him for a moment.

"Erik," She called at last, when she had drawn his image into her memory. She could hear his intake of breath when she entered, and fought the urge to cross her arms over her chest. The absence of her usually plentiful underclothes made everything seem risqué, exposed. Accessible. He marked his place, and set his book aside. The way he brushed the cover made her want to be something that he could touch so easily. A book, an instrument, a teacup: he was too careful with her. She blushed beneath his intense gaze.

Her hair was still damp, and seeing the object of her more brazen thoughts before her brought a blush to her cheeks. He was regarding her with the composure of a statue, but beneath his façade she read the shame, the doubt that had filled him since their kiss. She could feel his desire to approach, to touch. He likely assumed that she was somehow afraid of him. It would not do. Ignoring the sofa on the other side of the fire, she stepped towards him, bravely sinking to the ground by his feet, daring to lay her head back on his knee. Silent.

"Would you not be more comfortable elsewhere?" He whispered. She could feel the tension, the dizzying warmth pouring off him in waves. She shook her head. The rug was soft beneath her, the fire warm. Their proximity a good compromise with her desires. For a while they sat in silence, until she felt a tentative hand upon her head, fingers twining in her curls. It felt right, like they had sat this way before and would again.

"Your hair glows red in the light." Erik marveled. "I never knew. In the summer, you must be radiant." Christine sighed and relaxed into his strokes, growing languid as the fire crackled. Yet…they had much to talk about. Too much had happened; it would not do to hide in simple pleasures.

"Erik?" She looked up at him. "We hurt each other too easily, I want to stop."

"Stop? Forgive me." He withdrew his hands from her hair to bury his head in his hands.

"No—I mean… The fault doesn't rest solely on your shoulders. We've both been foolish." She rose to her knees, facing him.

"I never meant to frighten you, yet I do it again and again. Christine—the look on your face when I confessed what I had done, enchanted you like the monster I am."

"No." She said it firmly. "It hurt me when you pulled away. It hurt that you thought that you had coerced me. But it hurt the most to see you groveling at my feet like a dog. You are a man, Erik. A wonderful, genius of a man. You wrote me an opera. Any woman would be lucky to kiss you."

He let loose a bark of laughter. "No woman would have this face."

"I would." She snapped, then softer. "I did. I would again. A kiss freely given." She traced his jawline and he shuddered.

"Can you fault me for disbelieving? Never have I known a kiss, a gentle touch. I am still convinced that if you were to look upon me…" He captured her hand in his, kissing her palm. Horrified at his own presumption, but unwilling to resist anymore. "Christine, you are so very beautiful. You keep surprising me. You stay, again and again despite my foolishness. Another might have run after encountering that coffin—"

Christine shuddered, steadying herself by studying the rise and fall of him as he breathed. "It frightened me. Your death is a nightmare I do not want to witness, or tempt. Your face doesn't matter."

The atmosphere changed. He would not look at her. "You dare trivialize my greatest obstacle? Have you lived through the sneers and hate?" That golden voice became unrecognizable, he was lost to the past now. "The abuse that I have suffered at the hands of lesser men. I have been a plaything, a threat, a jester. An angel with the face of a rotting corpse. The Angel of Death is what I was named, Christine, and the bodies stacked against that name are enough to fill this house. Do you think that I want to hide here? I am not welcome anywhere else. Even you, in your infinite sweetness crumpled beneath the sight of this face." He sank back in his chair, regarding her sadly as his anger diffused. "Even now you shrink from me."

Heart bruising at the thought of how deeply she had failed him, Christine shook her head. Her hands fisted in the carpet. "I am not afraid of you. You won't hurt me."

"Oh Christine, there are ways of wounding without violence." He whispered. "Christine, I have spun so many illusions. I have played at assassinations, ghosts, angels. Angel was my greatest title. I cannot presume to be adept at being simply, Erik." He would not look at her, and she placed a tentative hand upon his knee to gain his attention.

"Then don't pretend anymore. Be the man I know you to be. Be, my Erik." His hand covered hers, lightly. A victory. She dared to twine their fingers, palm to palm. And she thought of the nights when he was an angel, reading lines of iambic from thin air, palm to palm as holy palmers kiss. She had never understood the sentiment behind that line until this moment, and was momentarily distracted by the careful pressure of his longer digits, encasing her own smaller hands. Little steps.

"My dear, I wish that I could be that man for you! To walk with you on Sundays… But I am a creature of another world, my dear. Shunned in the light, best leave me unseen. You deserve more, and though my soul cries for you, you deserve far better than me." He disentangled their hands, regret flaring within him when he saw how small she suddenly seemed. She was so pure, a halo of curls, salvation spilling from the lips he longed to claim again. He still felt the pressure of her kisses, the imprint of her body scalded him to his very soul. But he made her so unhappy, with his coffins and his lies. Wanting things from her that he would never voice, even if the secret of his love now swirled between them.

"I see you." Christine mourned the touch of his hand, and twined her arms around her body protectively. "Erik—you can't control your face. If you could, if you were perfect. Ange, you wouldn't want me."

"I would always want you, Christine—" She cut him off, but blushed.

"In this world, we are together. Does it not bring you happiness? Why should above be different?"

"Above, I am different. People look at me, and don't see the music; they see the mask. I would embarrass you." To his chagrin, Christine began to laugh.

"Embarrass me? Erik, I am a destitute orphan! I have no connections, no inclination to fall into the role of mistress. I am whispered about constantly, marked enemy by Carlotta—my only confidant, save you, is Meg—and I turned away the Vicomte. I am already a laughingstock, a new fad at best." She stood, underway now as she paced. "I am too 'stuck-up' for the chorus, too 'prudish' for the corps, and too 'risky' an investment for managers. I walk around in a permanent state of embarrassment, merely for existing—on top of that, I'm not even French! I've been noted as fanciful, alone, and peculiar for the majority of my life. Finally, I found you—or you found me—but Erik, I am happy when I am with you. Isn't that enough?"

He stood and crossed to her, suppliant but upright. Trembling, he answered her as he raised his hand to his mask. Removing it in one fluid motion, he asked her. "Is it still enough?"


	10. Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I finally got this up on AO3 as well! This chapter is new, and I hope you enjoy it. Please review, it's really nice to hear that people are enjoying this story. I am currently working on the next chapter, and it should be up soon.

A/N: Things being as they are in the world, I thought it was time to escape into the world of make believe. I told you this story was not abandoned! Let me know what you think!  
Her laugh caught in her throat, and he dare not raise his gaze to look at her. Silence. When he found the courage to look up, she had shut her eyes. Of course he could not know she was not quick enough to completely miss the firelit mess of his face. Christine was not afraid, his face had played in her dreams and waking thoughts alike. She did not fear him, but refused to look upon him now. Not when he was trying to frighten her. Not when he dared cast himself as the monster. Her tightly shut eyes, her half-moon lashes casting stubborn shadows across her cheekbones. She would not let him undervalue himself thus.

"Why do you seek to frighten me away?" She whispered, facing him as best she could.

"Fear is more alive than any of the more tender sentiments. You hide your eyes from the truth of that even now. You shut your eyes, Christine. Moments ago you were telling me that I was enough." Erik sneered. He circled her, "Where is that courage now?"

"I will not be goaded into a senseless argument." Christine replied firmly. "You are enough, we both know it—Erik these games must stop."

"Games!" He spat, "How cavalier the mademoiselle is—"

"How unfair the gentleman!" She snapped back. "You know that I care for you, and I will not allow you to weaponize yourself in this manner!" But he was beyond listening to her now.

"Have you ever seen a caged tiger, Christine? Circling it's prey? Or perhaps darkness stealing the light away—" He spoke nonsense, fueled by the pain of years past, but she would not listen.

That horrible, unhinged laugh again. So unlike the deep rumble of Erik's natural chuckle. She wanted it to stop, and despite herself she shuddered. "Ah, regret at last. You have kissed the face of death and lived—there are many who have died for lesser transgressions."

"Erik," A plea, and he softened. Of course he softened to hear his own name so tenderly upon her lips. Blindly, she reached out and managed to catch his arm as he circled her. She heard his resounding shudder as she slid her grip along his forearm to cover his hand with hers. All the fight left him in a sigh as she gently took the mask from his hands. "You are not a weapon, Erik."

"Oh but I am—Oh Christine these hands, this face has brought more horror to the people in this world than words can say. I am the monster in the dark. A joke of nature—"

"No. You are Erik. Let me see you as Erik. Please. Whether today or in your own time, when you trust me enough—but not like this, not in anger."

"Angel!" He sank to his knees before her once again, and this time she allowed herself to be pulled along with him.

She felt his shoulders shake in sobs as she carefully handed him the mask. His hands shook against hers as he took the offending object.

Christine found herself longing to look upon them, now that they had put aside pretense, but she refrained. Curiosity had been her vice for too long. "Erik, whatever you decide—I need you to know that I care about you. You are mi—my family."

His reply caressed her, his beautiful, beautiful voice. "As you are mine. Open your eyes, Christine."

She let her eyes flutter open, blinking in the firelight and looked upon him. She was ready to pledge her devotion. Ready for something to change and solidify. She wanted more than she should from him. So much more.

He had replaced the mask, and something in her chest squeezed tight, but she could see his lovely eyes now, watching her. He reached to touch her cheek, and before he could abandon the gesture, she caught his hand and pressed it there. His cool palm against her warm cheek. Erik. Her family. Her heart beat faster as she registered the catch in his breath at the contact. Her grip upon his wrist was firm, keeping his hand there. Offering constant permission.

He was hers. She felt the unbidden tears well in her eyes and bid them not to spill down her cheeks. But they did, tracing hot paths down her face.

"Such devotion—Oh Christine, I would never dare to ask for such words! You kissed me. You kissed me and even if you run now, I could live on that memory alone. If I let you see my face, care will dissolve to pity and family to obligation—"

"I kissed you." She whispered, "There is no obligation in kisses freely given."

"Try as I might, I cannot find fault in your tears, I cannot find fault in you, though it would be better if I could. Perhaps this would not hurt so deeply." Breathing shakily, he led her free hand to his masked cheek. "Do what you will with me. I grant you everything. I ask only that if you look, that you will continue to see me. See me, please see me, Christine."  
It was the most trust he had ever granted her. Granted anyone, she was sure. She wanted desperately to be enough. The mask was cold against her palm. She traced its seam, carefully. And she lifted it from his face, gently.

Now it was he who shut his eyes, but only for a moment. When he opened them he was watching her defiantly. Almost cold in his austerity. She met his gaze evenly.

She looked upon the bloated upper lip, the twisted nose. The sallow and stretched skin of his cheekbone. And all she saw was Erik. She sobbed in the relief of it. She saw her Erik. The realization jolted through her. It did not matter. This was the face that she wanted to see when they sang together and took meals and kissed—for she wanted to kiss him still. She wanted him still.

With a cry, she launched herself into his arms, gripping him tightly to her. She was trembling, and curled even closer. Erik. Hers. His heartbeat. His pulse. His voice, his love. Erik. She curled into him, almost in his lap. It didn't seem close enough.

He did not return her embrace, not at first. He registered her warmth against him. The tickle of her curls against his unmasked cheek. She had not screamed. She had chosen to look upon him, and she did not run away.

Slowly he willed his arms to hold her, and once he gave them permission they gripped her so tightly that he feared he'd mar her flesh with bruises, but she only held him tighter in response. Nuzzling her face into the crook of his neck—perhaps he was deluding himself, but he felt certain that she kissed him there.

Through her nightclothes, he could feel the unhidden shape of her against him. Pliant and willing and soft. Oh—Christine! He tried not to fixate on the places where he could feel her against him. Her breasts, the exposed skin above her knees where the nightdress had ridden up as she curled in his lap. The way his hands spanned her back, and how the heat of her skin through the thin material stole the coldness from him. The aroma of her drying curls intoxicating him, rubbing against his bare face. The way her breath upon his neck was driving him to distraction, or how she was holding onto him so tightly, but with such care—and then she began to pepper the line of his jaw with kisses. What torture was this?!  
She kissed her way across his deformed flesh like it was nothing, like he was ordinary. Not asking permission, just adoring. Long-untouched nerves sang out at her ministrations. She accepted him! He growled, and he felt her smile against the corner of his mouth. It undid him. He captured her mouth. Her yelp of surprise allowed him to slip his tongue between her lips and taste her. She moaned into his mouth, fisting her hands in his hair.

He lost governance of his own hands and found them tracing the curves of her waist. She tugged at his hair in an effort to get closer, shifting in his lap. Her thighs on either side of him as she squirmed. Little cries slipping from her— Oh Christine, willing in his arms! His traitorous hands gripped her hips and pulled her closer. Too close. With a soft groan he tried to break their embrace before she became aware of his predicament.

She would not have it. Her resulting mews and squirms of dissatisfaction were enough to drive him to distraction. Then she noticed. She stopped, and looked up at him with a red face.

"Oh…"

Blushing with mortification, he pushed her from him gently. "Forgive me. I was overcome."

"I don't mind. I rather lost my senses too." She was looking up at him again with her beautiful blue eyes, cheeks flushed. Lips parted. Reaching for him. He could not bear it. Every instinct he had longed to unwrap her from her nightclothes and see what else she 'didn't mind.'

"Christine!" He stood, and turned away trying to hide the proof of his wanting from her curious gaze.

She embraced him from behind, pressing her face between his shoulder blades. "Don't wear it anymore, Erik. Please."

Her fingers laced across his stomach, her form against his back. Christine. And suddenly desire was secondary to a glorious feeling of contentment as she embraced him.

"Promise me, Erik."

"Christine, I can deny you nothing." He turned in her embrace, and she smiled at him as she rose to press a kiss to his cheek.

"Then you promise?"

"My dear, of course I do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please R&R and thank you to everyone who is still with me!


End file.
